


Breathe Me In (And Let Me Stay)

by TheMipstaz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Happy Ending, Kidnapped Derek Hale, M/M, Magic, Minor Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Omega Derek Hale, Oral Sex, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Hunters, Werewolf!Hayden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7185761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: In Teen Wolf canon, A/B/O dynamics is defined by pack status. An Alpha is pack leader, betas are pack members, and an omega is a lone wolf without a pack. My prompt has to do with Derek essentially becoming an omega at the end of season 4....completely out of character based on the loss of his family and his direct actions to rebuild a pack in previous seasons, but hey, Jeff Davis. So my prompt...Derek returns to Beacon Hills but is unprotected as an omega. Scott is oblivious and does not know he needs to formally ask Derek to join his pack. Derek is insecure and thinks he has not been invited because he is not wanted. Derek is put at risk because he is an omega. But BAMF Stiles intervenes and saves the day. Pack feels (everyone) and naked celebration (Sterek) commences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Me In (And Let Me Stay)

**Author's Note:**

> For [LadyHawke72](http://ladyhawke72.tumblr.com/). Hope you like it! Title from [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90Bm2rC6zaM)

“Stiles. Stiles, I’m sorry. _Stilesssssss_ ,” Scott groans. “Stilestilestilestiles, talk to me. C’mon, dude.”

Stiles stubbornly refuses to look at his best friend and adjusts his grip on the jeep’s steering wheel. He barely resists the urge to dial up the radio so _The Chainsmokers_ can drown out his best friend. “I can’t. I’m still mad at you.”

“There’s only so many times I can say I’m sorry,” Scott pleads, eyes wide.

“Yeah, and you have a lot more to go,” Stiles snips back. He keeps his gaze firmly fixed to the road to make sure Scott’s puppy eyes don’t sway him in the slightest.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Derek was back in town—”

“Boys,” Lydia interrupts dryly from the backseat, “do you really think the middle of a supernatural emergency is the best time to have your lovers’ spat? It’s not like Derek’s been kidnapped by hunters or anything.”

“Yeah, so shut it, Scott,” Stiles grimaces as Roscoe careens down the dirt road and takes a curve so sharply Scott bangs his head on the window.

“Ow, shit, Stiles!”

“Look, there’s Kira’s car,” Lydia points, and Stiles pulls over to skid to a haphazard stop next to the red Toyota. The three of them step out to greet Kira and Malia, and a moment later, Mason’s headlights swing through the night. Mason, Liam, and Hayden all stumble out of the car with grim faces to look at the menacing treeline of the Preserve silhouetted against the starry sky.

“So this might just be as the worst night ever,” Hayden grumbles, a chill running down her spine as something rustles in the undergrowth.

“Get used to it, sweetheart,” Lydia replies bracingly and flicks on her flashlight. Not everyone can have werewolf night vision.

Malia fidgets impatiently, eyes gleaming bright blue. “The scent will start to fade soon,” she says agitatedly.

Kira remains quiet, but reaches for Malia’s hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

“Okay,” Scott agrees, irises bleeding red, “let’s go.”

* * *

 “It’s like none of us have ever seen a horror movie,” Stiles mutters, following Scott as they trudge through the vegetation. The floating will-o-wisp he conjured up a couple minutes ago hovers around his feet to illuminate the ground. “Walking in the creepy-ass woods at midnight. This is exactly how the dumb white people die. I don’t want to die as a stereotype, damn it, Scott.”

“Well, if you have a better idea,” grunts Scott, leaping over a gully and sending leaves skittering down into the dark, “I would love to hear it. It’s not like we can just use a megaphone and yell for the bad guys to come out with their hands up and hand Derek over.”

“Hey, last time we had to get the grumpy asshole, we had to drive all the way to freaking Mexico. Sue me if I think we deserve an easy retrieval this time around. Ah, fuck, I think I just stepped in deer crap.”

“I always thought tracking would be quieter than this,” Mason says with a perplexed expression, watching Stiles scrape his sneaker bottom against a protruding tree root and make a face at the offending stench.

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but Scott cuts him off with a hissed, “Quiet!”

All three of them freeze. Stiles extinguishes the light with a flick of his wrist, plunging them into darkness.

“Okay,” Scott whispers after a couple heart-pounding moments of nothing, “maybe it was a false alarm.” Stiles cautiously brings back the will-o-wisp to deepen the surrounding shadows, letting out a relieved sigh. Scott frowns. “I could’ve sworn I heard a—”

A huge blur barrels headfirst into Scott and bowls him over with an earth-shaking roar. Scott snarls in surprise and goes tumbling head over heels. The two barely miss Stiles, who swears and reels backwards in shock. The two wrestling werewolves shatter the silent night with menacing growls as they thrash and thud amongst the trees.

“I can’t fucking see anything, Jesus Chr—there!”

Mason yelps in surprise as everything flares bright white, blinding him. He blinks furiously, but chooses to white-knuckle the baseball bat Stiles lent him rather than dare to let go and wipe at his eyes. The black dots swimming in his vision fade just enough for Mason to make out the dozen or so balls of light now hovering around Stiles. With the new light, Mason can see Scott and the other werewolf warily circling each other, weaving in and out of the closely-growing trees.

Mason squints, trying to make out the sharply shadowed figure slinking behind a bramble thicket. Scott protectively slides in front of him. Stiles clenches his fists, air around him simmering with tightly coiled power like a thunderstorm about to break.

Then, Mason spots two electric blue eyes blinking out from the brambles, and Scott and Stiles both exclaim, “ _Derek_?”

The hunched figure freezes in surprise and slowly straightens up. “Scott? Stiles?”

“And Mason!” Mason pipes up helpfully, waving. “Nice to meet you.”

Derek slowly lurches into the light, and Stiles sucks in a sharp breath. “Look what happens when you come back to Beacon Hills and don’t tell me,” he jokes weakly to ignore the way his heart hammers in his chest, “bad shit. Now you’ve learned a valuable lesson.”

Derek just scowls and wipes at the bead of blood dripping into his eye from the healing gash on his forehead. “Shut up, Stiles. Are you here to rescue me or give me a lecture?”

“C’mon,” Scott motions back the way they came, “the car’s this way. Let’s get out of here. Why are the hunters even after you anyways? We have a truce. We take care of the anything on our territory, and they only get involved if innocents are at risk.”

“I guess a lone omega is dangerous enough to count as a threat to humans,” Derek says gruffly as he follows. “You might wanna fix that loophole if I’m going to be sticking around.”

“Unbelievable,” Stiles mutters furiously under his breath, stalking ahead and shoving a tree branch aside. “Un-fucking-believable.”

When he lets go, it whips back to thwack the face of Mason, who yelps.

“ _I’m_ unbelievable?” Derek snaps back, temper flaring. “I’m not the one who caused this whole mess in the first place. And I’m not talking about the hunters.”

“Guys,” Scott tries to placate, “we really have bigger issues right now.”

“Oh, so somehow this is all _my_ fault?” Stiles seethes, ignoring Scott and whirling around. _I’m not the one who’s too stubborn to join the pack,_ he thinks and narrows his eyes. _Lone wolf, my ass._

“No, you’re right,” drawls Derek sarcastically, though sincere bitterness laces his tone. “It is my fault. Sorry I’m too weak and too much of a liability to invite into the pack.”

Stiles blinks. “Wait, what—”

An sharp whistling sound cuts him off; Derek yells, “Get down!” and tackles Stiles to the ground while Scott yanks Mason behind a tree. An arrow lodges itself firmly into a tree trunk where Stiles’ head had been a moment before and explodes with a blaze of light and fire. Deafening gunfire erupts all around them. It peppers the ground and throws up a spray of dirt. Stiles gets a mouthful and splutters, flinching his eyes closed and clinging to Derek for dear life.

Scott throws back his head and howls, deeming a call for backup more important than secrecy now that they’ve been made. The sound rings high and clear over the approaching sounds of hunters shouting and swearing; answering calls echo through the night. Stiles and Derek scramble to their feet. Then they all take off running.

“What do you mean,” Stiles huffs, weaving in and out of trees and nearly tripping over a root, “a liability?”

“Really not the best time, Stiles,” Derek barks back—not even out of breath despite full out sprinting, Stiles realizes sourly. Derek jerks in surprise when a bullet sends a shower of splinters into his face.

Stiles’ feels a bead of sweat slide down his temple, feels a steady ache starting to build in his feet. But he still fires back, “You say that like a care.”

“Guys!” Scott snaps, eyes burning like coals as he scans the forest. “Can you maybe save your relationship issues for when we’re not being chased by hunters?” He catches sight of Hayden and Liam’s beta yellow eyes on his right flank and Kira’s flickering orange aura on his left.

“Our _what_?” Stiles demands as furiously as he can considering he can barely suck in enough air to keep running, never mind yelling over the crashing footsteps and gun shots.

But Scott never gets the chance to answer because a razor-sharp arrow head buries itself into the back of his thigh. He goes down with a pained yelp.

“Scott!” Kira cries, skidding on the leaf-strewn ground to double back. Malia bursts from the shadows with a snarl and bounds after her. Stiles curses, scrabbling to get enough purchase in the dirt to stop his forward momentum. Derek wheels around too, icy blue eyes flashing.

Several things happen at once. Malia has nearly caught up to Kira when the ground crumbles and vanishes underneath her feet. She tumbles down with a shriek, swallowed by the earth. She wails when she hits the bottom of the ten foot deep ditch, iron spikes at the bottom impaling her flesh. The metal tip gleams blood red in the weak light and salutes the moon.

Derek has just started towards Scott when something snakes around his ankle and yanks him up into the air. He yells in shock and swings wildly, helplessly. Everything around him blurs, and the thick band of rough rope burns a brand onto his skin.

Mason has just stumbled to stop and turned to look over his shoulder when Liam yells, “Mason, don’t move!” He freezes and hears Hayden gasp. Squinting in the dark, Mason glances around. He tries to even his erratic breathing, his pounding heartbeat. Liam carefully approaches, face ashen. “I think,” he says, “you stepped in a bear trap.”

* * *

Everything seems to fall apart at once. One second, Stiles feels his pack closing ranks to swoop down on the hunters as a single, powerful unit. The next, he’s at Scott’s side alone and facing down a dozen rifle barrels. He can distantly hear Malia’s squeals of pain, but has lost sight of the others. In the back of his mind, Stiles distantly realizes that the hunters must have orchestrated the entire chase to have successfully sprung so many traps in such a small area and time frame. It’s something to think about later. For now, Stiles’ whole world narrows down to where his hand clamps down on Scott’s shoulder and where his sneakers dig into the dirt.

“Any last words, boys?” one of the hunters sneers.

Instead of answering, Scott claps both hands over his ears, Stiles’ eyes flicker to hot white, and Lydia’s banshee screech tears through the forest. The sound barrels through the trees—ripping off leaves, bowling over the hunters, and rocking the very ground.

Stiles winces at the ear-splitting noise, but focuses on honing his spark. Magic flows through his veins to pool warmly in his hands. With great sweeping motions, he releases the pent up energy into the air to guide and direct the sound waves. A bead of sweat trickles down Stiles’ forehead; he molds and sharpens the lethal scream into a needle-sharp tip and hurls it like a javelin. Like a tangible object, it whistles through the air and bursts apart at the hunters’ feet, throwing up a clods of dirt and knocking them back.

They don’t rise again.

Once the deafening ringing has died down and the dust has cleared, Stiles helps Scott to his feet. Blood trickles out of Scott’s ears while his body slowly repairs his shattered eardrums, and he half-shouts, “What?” when Stiles asks him if he’s okay.

Lydia carefully picks her way through the vegetation towards them. “I’m going to go find the others,” she announces, elegantly gliding between the trees towards where she can hear Malia swearing and Kira panicking.

Stiles patiently waits for Scott to shake his head a little bit, dig some soil out of the shell of his ear, and give Stiles a thumbs up. Then he repeats, “You good?”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” Scott smiles adorably, grey dust clinging to his hair.

“Sweet. So that means you’ll call my dad and find some logical explanation for why there are half a dozen deaf, grime-covered guys with illegal firearms in the preserve?” Stiles asks innocently.

Scott scowls.

Stiles shoots him a shit-eating grin and turns around, only to find a slack-jawed Derek staring at him in disbelief. Stiles freezes like a deer caught in the headlights. “Uh,” he tries weakly, “surprise?”

* * *

“So that was new,” Derek says later as they all heavily trudge towards the edge of the preserve. Scott keeps frowning at his phone and Stiles then his phone again.

Stiles shrugs self-consciously at the understatement, dragging his feet. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Long enough for you to learn magic,” Derek agrees quietly. “And build a new pack.”

“A pack that has a tendency to get caught in bear traps,” Stiles adds pointedly, glaring over his shoulder at a newly-freed Mason, who gapes.

“It’s not _my_ fault!” he splutters in disbelief.

Stiles leans conspiratorially towards Derek, loudly whispering behind a hand, “Ugh, underclassmen, am I right?”

While Hayden, Liam, and Mason all chorusing indignant protests, Derek can’t help but bite back a smile. It’s difficult to do with Stiles’ sweet, achingly familiar scent tickling his nose. Based on the softness in Stiles’ eyes, Derek doesn’t think he’s successful.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t know how he got here. Okay, that’s technically lie and makes the fact that Derek’s stripped down to briefs and kneeling over him sound very nonconsensual and wrong. Stiles has a perfect recollection of opening his door to find Derek almost shyly standing on his front step, of them both admitting that what they had—before Derek gallivanted off with Braeden—was real. He vividly remembers them crashing together in a desperate kiss that was years in the making.

What Stiles _means_ to say is that the road they took to get here—Stiles tracing reverent fingers down Derek’s sides, Derek pressing butterfly kisses to Stiles’ pulse—was convoluted, winding, and just plain difficult. Yet, Stiles wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, not when it brought him to this pinnacle moment.

“You need a lot less clothes,” Derek mutters against Stiles’ skin, teeth nipping lightly. He unbuckles Stiles’ belt, fingers sliding his jeans down slim hips.

“So do you,” Stiles grins, playfully snapping the elastic band of Derek’s briefs against his skin. But he obligingly wiggles out of his jeans and boxers, having abandoned his shirt ten minutes into their make out session. He now splays out on his coverlet, completely naked.

He forgets to feel shy, distracted by the coarse hair meandering down Derek’s stomach and the flex of Derek’s thighs as he peels off his black briefs. Stiles bites his bottom lip at the sight of Derek’s hard cock, bobbing thick between his legs. He surges forward almost before Derek has settled back onto the mattress and pushes Derek down onto his back.

“Is this okay?” Stiles breathes against Derek’s lips—their legs tangled, their hips flush, their chests touching, their eyes locked.

Derek visibly swallows, eyes darkening when he nods.

And then they’re kissing, slow and measured but still with frissons of simmering heat sparking between them. Stiles groans when Derek takes his bottom lip between his teeth, cock twitching.

In response, Stiles arches his back in a filthy roll of his hips that has Derek’s breath hitching. Stiles hides his smirk against Derek’s neck, lapping at the sweat beading there.

“Do you have—” Derek gasps at another devastating grind of their cocks. He grips Stiles’ hips hard enough to bruise; he’s not sure whether it’s to hold Stiles still so Derek can remember how to speak in full sentences or encourage him.

“Lube?” Stiles guesses. He brushes one last lingering kiss against Derek’s lips before leaning over to rifle through his nightstand. “Duh. And… flavored condoms apparently. Huh. I forgot about those. Do you want banana or strawberry?”

Derek makes a face.

“You seem like a strawberry kind of guy,” Stiles muses, tossing a couple foil packets on the bed along with the bottle.

Derek dryly asks, “How do you figure that?” He steadies Stiles with a firm hand on his lower back as Stiles resettles himself onto Derek’s lap.

“Well, you’re _berry_ attractive.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows ridiculously, bursting into laughter at Derek’s unamused grimace. “Don’t look so sad, Derek,” Stiles grins, “you’ll turn into a blueberry. And then we’ll be in a real _jam_.” He cackles again, shoulders shaking as he leans into Derek’s chest.

“Please stop,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. But he can feel the corner of his mouth twitching regardless.

That just eggs Stiles on. But when he opens his mouth again, Derek cuts him off with a hard kiss. Whatever horrible fruit pun Stiles had on his lips gets lost when he moans into Derek’s mouth. Derek feels Stiles long fingers curl into his hair and cup his jaw, relishes Stiles’ dick nudging insistently at the cut of his hip, gets lost in the warmth of his mouth.

Derek pulls away just enough to whisper, “How do you want me?” into the hair’s breadth of space between their lips.

“Like this,” Stiles responds with a feather-light peck to the corner of Derek’s mouth. “On your back. I want to see you.”

Somehow _that’s_ what makes Derek flush red and feel like a teenager again with a ridiculous crush. Except this time it’s not a girl he won’t ever have the chance to fall in love with or a woman who now haunts his ugliest nightmares; it’s Stiles. Stiles who has seen Derek at his worst, witnessed his most terrible mistakes, discovered his vile past. Stiles who stuck around anyway, who fought for Derek when Derek didn’t feel worthy of being fought for, who still wants Derek in his imperfect entirety. This kind of intimacy makes Derek feel vulnerable, but in a good way—like airing out a festering wound. It hurts at first, but then he relaxes and realizes that it feels really fucking good.

“Okay,” Derek whispers, zeroing in on the steady _thump-thump_ of Stiles’ heart. “Okay.”

Stiles is gentler than Derek ever would’ve guessed. For all that he’s usually bouncing off the walls with frenetic energy, Stiles slows way down once he’s got Derek on his back with a pillow tucked under his hips. He trails unhurried kisses along Derek’s inner thigh and the crease of his hip. Slender, nimble fingers wrap around Derek’s aching cock and gently tease the silky skin until precome beads at the tip. Plush, sinful lips wrap around the head and suck lightly, just enough to send shivers down Derek’s spine, but not enough for him to come.

“Stiles,” Derek pants, hands fisting the sheets at his sides. He glances down, and his stomach jumps at the sight of Stiles’ mouth wrapped obscenely around his cock, tongue toying with the foreskin. “ _Stiles_ _._ ”

Stiles glances up through thick lashes. His eyes darken with lust, cheeks hollowing. His hands tighten on Derek’s hips, nails digging in.

Derek gives an involuntary bucks up despite his best efforts, sucking in a sharp breath. “Stiles, I—”Heat swirls in his gut, pulsing along with the steady bobs of Stiles’ head. When a warm, lube-slick finger smears against his hole, it’s all Derek needs. He comes with a low growl, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back. After a minute of hard breathing, Derek feels his pulse slow back down into a lazy beat.

“So that was pretty hot.”

“Glad you thought so,” Derek replies in a gravelly voice. He’s so dazed that he doesn’t even think before mumbling, “Also, I’m pretty sure bananas are berries too.”

Stiles stifles a laugh into Derek’s thigh, biting his lip in an effort to keep Derek from noticing in his come-drunk state. “Guess we didn’t need the strawberry condoms after all, huh? Well, you didn’t at least. Do you still want,” Stiles holds up a hand and wiggles his lubed up fingers, “up your butt?”

“Well, when you put it so romantically.”

Stiles grins mischievously. “That’s not a no, I’m hearing.”

Derek huffs. “Yes, Stiles, I still want your fingers and then your dick up my ass. Now fuck me.”

Stiles takes those words to heart. Carefully drizzling more lube on, he meticulously works his fingers into Derek. He curls them and catalogues the way Derek shudders, twists them and files away the stutter in Derek’s hips for later. He works up to three, murmuring sweet praises all the while. Derek arcs his back to a chorus of, “Fuck,” and “Do you know how good you look like this?”

Finally, Derek hooks his ankles around the back of Stiles’ thighs and yanks him close. He impatiently growls, “I’m ready, so hurry the fuck up.”

Stiles isn’t about to argue with that.

He quickly withdraws his fingers, eyes glued to where Derek’s hole clenches flutters around nothing. He tears his gaze away to hastily rip open the condom with his teeth and roll it on. Stiles is almost positive he accidentally smears his lube-slick hand on the sheets, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care much.

“Okay, okay,” he says as he lines up, eyes roving over Derek’s face.

“Okay,” Derek repeats quietly, expression open and trusting and expectant.

Stiles slowly slides in, moaning in unison with Derek at the warm muscles enveloping him. It feels amazing, makes him want to pound away. But instead, Stiles forces himself to wait and hover over Derek until his discomfort eases. He leisurely drags heavy kisses from Derek’s lips across his cheeks to the bridge of his nose and the cut of his jaw. Stiles breathes loving words into the hollow of Derek’s throat until Derek relaxes around him.

From there, it’s all tender touches and wandering hands. Stiles blankets himself over Derek, and Derek clings to Stiles broad shoulders. They pant into each other’s mouths as their bodies push and pull together, rolling as a single tide.

Stiles can feel himself perspiring as everything begins to crescendo. Their grinding bodies grow erratic, Stiles thrusts become uneven and sloppy, and Derek tilts his hips in just a way that he sees stars on every stroke. Derek trembles with the overwhelmingness of it all, the building pleasure and the slap of skin. At last, he gives in and reaches down to fist his cock, moaning at the sweet relief it brings. A couple firm strokes, a well-timed twist of his wrist, and a shaking thumb to tease the foreskin all have Derek spilling into his hand in a matter of seconds. He comes with a low moan, toes curling and muscles clenching.

Stiles comes not long after, hips snapping and lips seeking Derek’s for a kiss that ends up little more than a loose press of breathless mouths. He chases his orgasm with sharp, deliberate thrusts until his racing heart gives a little hiccup, and he falls into bliss.

Muscles loosening, Stiles all but collapses onto Derek with a little grunt. He allows himself a few heartbeats of rest before hauling himself up and slowly pulling out. Derek lets out a mournful little sigh, which absolutely does not cause Stiles’ chest to flutter.

“Be right back.” Fighting back a yawn, Stiles quickly ties off the condom and gets up to throw it away. He wearily pads into the bathroom for a warm washcloth. Wiping himself down, Stiles actually does yawn this time as he crawls back into bed to swipe blearily at the come smeared on Derek’s abdomen and hand. Derek grumbles unhappily, blinking heavily and squirming away from the lukewarm cloth. Eventually giving up at doing a decent job, Stiles tosses the dirty cloth somewhere on the ground to pick up later.

Once he finally dives under the sheets with Derek, Stiles lets out a content noise as Derek molds himself to his back. “How did you know I like to be the little spoon?” Stiles mutters drowsily, not particularly caring for an answer. Sleep pulls insistently at his eyelids, reminding Stiles that he deserves a rest after a daring midnight rescue followed by rigorous sex.

The last thing Stiles hears before he’s out cold is, “Everybody likes to be the little spoon. It makes you feel safe.”

* * *

The next day, Scott officially invites Derek into his pack.

The day after that, Derek takes Stiles out for dinner to solidify their new relationship.

It takes Stiles a full three days to realize his new boyfriend quoted _Brooklyn Nine Nine_ to him after the first time they slept together. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Stiles declares with an eye-crinkling smile.

Derek can’t help but bask in the warmth of it.


End file.
